Frowning, he twitched back the curtain and looked at his dormant gardens. They would explode with color and scent in the spring. But it was unlikely he would be there to see them in the spring.
Those giggling whey-faced girls were the kind of ladies Lord Ashburn preferred, she imagined. The kind who covered their faces with fans and fluttered their lashes over them. They drank fruit punch and carried vials of smelling salts and lace handkerchiefs in their reticules. Empty headed twits.